


Kingfisher

by burning_brightly



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Tour Fic, arguing (and then making up), awkward golfing, fair warning: this is absurdity at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burning_brightly/pseuds/burning_brightly
Summary: An absurd (and somewhat salacious) imagining of what might have happened after the bandmates clip from GMP went viral.In which Tessa is furious, Scott is frustrated, and Javi wants to steal a golf cart and escape. (Possibly to another galaxy.)





	Kingfisher

**Author's Note:**

> I...have no excuse for this fic. It is probably slightly OOC. It is definitely tongue-in-cheek. It is absolutely not meant to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Title is taken from a quote from T.E. Lawrence (you know, the whole _Lawrence of Arabia_ guy): 
> 
> "Nine-tenths of tactics are certain, and taught in books: but the irrational tenth is like the kingfisher flashing across the pool, and that is the test of generals."
> 
> ...because really, who _doesn't_ want to read T/S using devious tactics to one-up each other in the bedroom?
> 
> (Finally, Miss Tessa, if you're here, for God's sake go away and stop reading. Thank you.)

Scott doesn’t know what exactly has happened, but the second he walks through the door of their shared hotel room, he knows something’s up. Tessa’s sitting on the bed, back propped against the cushions, and she has a _look_ on her face that he knows well. Very well.

“Hi, babe,” he says, which is not exactly his best opening line, but seems fairly safe in light of the rather pinched look around the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t respond, just raises an eyebrow and glances pointedly at her phone.

“Tessa?” he says after the silence stretches out for a moment. She still hasn’t made a sound, but then she takes in a deep, controlled breath, lets it out in a long exhale, and _shit_. This is not good.

“Tess, what’s going on?” he says, a little nervous now. It’s not something tragic happening in the family, he knows, because she’d be sobbing in his arms by now. No, this is something else. She’s mad at him, he knows it, but he cannot for the life of him figure out why.

She stares at him, then taps one perfectly manicured finger on her phone case. Her lips are a thin line by now, and he’s getting more than a little scared.

“Bandmates?” she says, her voice like ice. He is so confused at this juncture that he wonders for a moment if he woke up this morning and walked into an alternate reality or something.

“What?” he manages, intelligently. She takes in another deep breath.

“Bandmates,” she repeats through her teeth. “You just _had_ to go and decide to define our relationship by calling us _bandmates_. Of all the ridiculous things to say.”

He goggles at her. What the hell is she talking about?

“Tess, I -” he starts, but she won’t let him finish.

“I did the Vogue interview just fine,” she says, voice quiet and controlled in that terrifying way she has when she’s really pissed off. “I danced around the question, kept it vague, didn’t give anything away. And then you had to go off on your own bat during that Q&A during Gold Medal Plates, and, without consulting me, or Russell, or _anybody_ , decide to call us _bandmates_.”

His mouth actually drops open.

“Is _that_ what you’re talking about?” he manages finally. “The GMP talk? Tess, that was a week ago, what’s the deal? You weren’t happy about it that night, but I said I was sorry, and we fixed it, and I - ”

She holds up an imperious hand.

“Shush,” she says peremptorily, and he bristles. She _never_ does that to him, and although he loves her more than life itself, he doesn’t take kindly to being told to hush like a small child.

“Tessa, I really - ”

Her eyes flash, and he promptly shuts up.

“The video’s all over Twitter,” she says in a voice that has absolutely no expression whatsoever. “All over Twitter. And Tumblr. And Instagram. I would imagine that every social media platform on the planet has it by now.”

“How - ”

She gives him a look that could slice off limbs and pierce internal organs.

“Some GMP intern apparently thought it would be wildly entertaining to post it on their Instagram account,” she says, still in that completely emotionless voice. “I have, of course, contacted Russell. He will be speaking to their legal department on our behalf.”

Scott sits down on the armchair in the corner with a sort of thud. Oh _shit_.

“T, I know that this isn’t - ”

She turns her head and looks out the window. He is a little surprised the window doesn’t ice over with the weight of her stare.

“I thought we agreed when we got together, when we decided to try this, that we were going to work as a team,” she says, biting off the ends of her words, hitting her consonants just a little too hard. “I thought we agreed that we would _talk_ to each other about how to handle the dating question. That we would communicate. But it seems that you’d rather discuss your fondness for...bands.”

He stares at his hands, warring feelings of shame and annoyance twisting in his gut. On the one hand, she’s right - he should’ve waited to break out a new code name for their relationship until he’d actually discussed it with her. But on the other hand, it’s been nearly a week since that talk, they’ve been fine since, and it’s hardly his fault that some GMP intern felt like getting fired today was a great life choice. She can’t exactly blame him for _that_ part.

“Tessa,” he says, trying for patient here. “I’m sorry this happened, but surely you couldn’t expect me to know ahead of time that it was going to get dropped on social media. I mean, I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good.”

This was apparently the worst possible thing to say. Tessa hisses in a sharp breath and thumps her phone down on the bedspread with enough force to make the entire bed shake.

“ _That’s_ your grand takeaway from this?” she snaps, and her voice sure as hell isn’t emotionless now. “That’s you’re good, but you’re _not that good?_ ”

He forces himself to set his jaw and stay still. He’s not going to back down, goddammit. He may have screwed up a week ago, but they set that to rights then, and she has _absolutely_ no business blaming him for this current fiasco.

“Yes, that’s it,” he says, and braces himself inwardly. This is not going to go well for him. At all.

“Fine, then,” she says with vitriol in every syllable. “If that’s the way you feel about it, you can sleep on the couch.”

He shoots to his feet. The rank injustice of this is beyond belief, because he damn well deserves that bed, and she has _no_ goddamn right to kick him out of it.

But before he can get a word in edgewise, she shrugs elegantly and says, “Or you can go back to your room. Whichever you prefer.”

Well, that does it. He’ll be damned to the fires of hell before he gets sent back to his room like a badly-behaved child. Fuck it all, this is _absurd_.

“I’m staying,” he says stonily, and glares right back at her this time. She narrows her eyes, and then abruptly swings her legs off the bed, stands, and goes to her suitcase. After a moment, she grabs her bath case and heads off to the large, luxuriously appointed bathroom, then stops and turns in the doorway. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s her damned press conference smile, he realises, and if he thought this was bad before…

“I’m going to take a shower,” she announces, rather unnecessarily. “Don’t come in, I don’t want company.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and slams the door shut. He stares at it for a long, long moment, wondering how his day got so monumentally fucked up in less than fifteen minutes. His special gift, he supposes.

God, but this week is going to be rough.

* * *

That evening is not a significant improvement. They fake it for the FaOI cast, smiling and joking and mostly avoiding each other when at all possible. He sits by Javi at dinner, and she talks and laughs with Jeff and absolutely refuses to make eye contact with Scott. But the real torment comes when they head upstairs to their room.

The second she gets in the door, she starts unbuttoning her shirt, slowly, and for half a second he thinks that she’s relented, that this evening is going to end far better than he hoped. This pleasant thought is quickly dashed, however, when she calmly strips it off, gives him a stony look, and reaches behind for her bra clasp.

 _Oh_. So _that’s_ how it’s going to be.

She takes her sweet time taking off her bra, shimmying out of her pants (and he _knows_ she’s wiggling her hips more than strictly necessary), and by the time she’s in nothing more than a pair of very sheer sea-foam green underwear, he becomes painfully aware of three fundamental truths. First, it doesn’t matter how furious he is with her, the sight of Tessa’s body is always, _always_ going to have him staring helplessly like a fucking schoolboy. Second, she knows it. And third, he’s hard as all hell and she hasn’t even touched him yet.

Yeah, he’s fucked ten ways to Sunday.

Tessa sways over to her suitcase, seemingly uncaring that she’s standing there topless, all pale skin and rosy nipples and dark hair streaming down over her shoulders.

“Is my charger over there on that table?” she says pleasantly. Scott takes a moment to clear his throat (and get his raging hard-on under control), and glances at the table in question.

“Yeah,” he says, and he’s extremely proud of the fact that his voice is steady. A little hoarse, maybe, but rock-steady.

“Would you mind bringing it over here?”

He freezes. What the hell is she doing?

“Ah...yes. Sure,” he says, and fuck, he hates this. They don’t _do_ this, the frosty silences, holding things over each other’s heads. Yes, he’s hard as all hell and itching to do something about it, but there’s an even bigger part of him that aches, knowing she’s this mad and won’t talk to him. He wants _his_ Tessa back - his lover, his partner, his best friend. But apparently the only way to do that is to admit this whole situation is his fault, and something in him balks at the very notion.

Which is why he steps over and hands her the charger, rather gingerly. She looks up at him, her fingers brushing against his, and he gets lost there for a minute, lost in those green depths. She’s right there, all warm soft skin and the scent of strawberries in her hair, and he _wants_. He can’t breathe for the wanting, just stands there drinking her in, and without even realising it, he leans forward, tilting his head to kiss her like muscle memory has taken over without his knowledge or will.

And then she makes a noise in her throat and steps back, blinking fast, and the moment’s lost.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, sets the charger down and reaches for her pajamas. His heart is pounding double-time behind his ribs, and he feels a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Going to brush my teeth,” he says, and flees to the bathroom to stare at his reflection in the mirror and wish for the millionth time that he could strangle the person who invented Twitter with his own two hands.

When he comes back, she’s already tucked into bed, ivory silk pajamas showcasing her pretty shoulders and a hint of cleavage. (He loves those pajamas on her, and she knows it.) But his side of the bed is still tucked neatly in, and she’s pulled his pillows sideways so she can prop up her laptop on them. The message could not be clearer: no one else is getting in that bed tonight.

For a moment, he seriously contemplates just going over there, shoving the pillows back where they belong, and making her talk to him. He’s nearly 31 years old, for God’s sake, and she’s 29. They are entirely too old for this passive-aggressive shit, and surely, by this point in their lives together…

And then she looks at him, her eyes defiant and still sparking with anger, and just like that his dander’s up all over again. She was the one who suggested this utterly _asinine_ idea. He’ll cheerfully sleep on the damned couch all week long if it proves his point.

That’s when it occurs to him. Two can play at this little game.

He shakes out the extra blanket over the end of the couch, and then reaches down and pulls his T-shirt over his head. With an elaborately casual movement, he reaches for his belt buckle. He hears a little noise behind him, something that sounds suspiciously like a gasp, but he refuses to let himself get distracted. Slowly, very slowly, he draws the leather through his belt loops, then drapes it over a chair and sets to work on the button of his jeans.

He’s shoving his jeans over his ass when he hears the little indrawn hiss of breath, and _oh_ , yeah, he’s got her now. He takes his time pulling them off entirely, and when he’s standing there in just his boxers, he can feel the weight of her stare on his backside. Tessa’s always had a thing for his ass, and in the past two and a half years, has told him so on numerous occasions. (He’s not even counting the times she’s surreptitiously felt him up.) And he’s really not at all opposed to the idea of using that fact against her now.

For a moment, folding his jeans neatly, he thinks if he wants to up the ante, do her one better. Fuck it all, he decides impulsively, he’s gonna do it. Deliberately, he hooks one thumb in the waistband of his boxer-briefs and draws them down.

This time, he _knows_ he heard it, the soft little moan behind him. It was involuntary, he’s absolutely certain of it, and that makes his triumph so, so much sweeter. When he turns, ostensibly to go dig his pajama bottoms out of their shared suitcase, he feels like doing a goddamn victory dance. She’s flushed a deep, lovely pink, the wash of colour spreading all the way down to the tops of her breasts, and she’s biting her lip hard enough to leave a mark. Her eyes are wide and very, very dark.

“Did you need something, Tess?” he enquires pleasantly, and she yanks her gaze upwards. He barely refrains from smirking.

“What?” she says, sounding very breathy. “Hmm? No, no, I’m...fine. Just...fine.”

He grins, showing an unnecessary amount of teeth.

“Just checking,” he says smugly, and practically struts over to the suitcase, feeling her eyes on him the entire way. (And, if he takes a little longer pulling on his pajamas than he ordinarily would, he feels like this time, it’s warranted.)

Before going to sleep, however, he feels like he at least owes it to her to show her what she’s missing out on tonight.

“Tess?” he says, quietly. She stops fiddling with her laptop and looks up, wary.

“Yes?” she says, but she doesn’t sound quite as cool and collected as before. Score one for Moir.

Thus emboldened, he crosses over to the bed in three swift strides, and before she has a chance to move away or freeze him out, he takes her face in both hands and kisses her. It’s one hell of a kiss, even if he does say so himself. He nips at her bottom lip as an opening salvo, and when she gasps in response, he slides his tongue over the bite as if to comfort her. In half a second, her mouth is open under his, and he’s using everything at his disposal, lips and teeth and tongue and hands, to remind her that no matter how mad she is at him, no matter how cold she may pretend to be, she loves him. She wants him just as much as he wants her. And she can shove his pillows sideways and banish him to the couch if she so desires, but she’s still going to dream of him tonight.

When he pulls away, she looks half-dazed, her head falling back against the pillow as if she doesn’t have the strength to hold it up on her own anymore. He’s quite certain that, given a few minutes to recover, she’ll lay into him or stare him down or whatever her preferred method of punishment is tonight, but he doesn’t plan on waiting around. Ignoring the fact that his body is screaming for him to climb back in that bed and make her come until she forgets her own name, he lies down on the couch, hooks one arm under the rather flat pillow, and pulls the blanket up around his waist. (After all, he doesn’t want to her to get _too_ accustomed to ogling him if she doesn’t plan to do anything about it.)

“Goodnight, Tess,” he says in his most annoyingly charming press-conference voice, and then she clicks off the light and the room is plunged into darkness. He takes advantage of the moment to shift on the extremely hard couch cushions and mourn the myriad ways in which this sleeping arrangement is going to play merry hell with his back.

All of which is instantly made worth it when he hears her, soft and a little subdued, the words floating across the expanse of their hotel room.

“Goodnight, Scott.”

He falls asleep to the sound of her voice wrapped around his name like a quiet caress.

* * *

Golfing together the next day is an...experience. One that he does not particularly care to repeat any time soon.

For one thing, Tessa decides to invite Javi along for the ride. Normally, this would’ve been a perfectly lovely and welcome thing to do. They both enjoy the Spaniard’s company - in fact, Scott’s pretty sure he went on record saying that the CSOI cast had adopted him as an honourary Canadian. But under the current circumstances, adding anyone else to the odd mix of barely restrained anger and barely contained lust between the two of them seems like a monumentally bad plan.

He realises the extent of this truth as soon as they get to the golf course, where Tessa turns to Javi and says, with fluttering lashes, “Oh, would you mind if you and Scott rode in the back? I really want to get a good video of the course for Instagram - it’s just so beautiful and green, isn't it?”

Javi acquiesces readily, because he’s incredibly well-mannered and because (as Scott well knows) Tessa in full charm mode is very difficult to resist. The practical result of this little arrangement is that Scott gets stuck in the back of the cart, sandwiched between Javi and a very nice Japanese woman in an aggressive shade of purple.

And Tessa, who’s making flirty eyes and cooing at her phone for her video, is all on her lonesome beside the driver in the front seat, with that very form-fitting skirt going completely and utterly to waste.

Score one, Virtue.

He doesn’t really know _how_ well she plans to score until they’re standing at the first hole side by side, preparing to take their shots, and she shifts until he can feel the heat of her body all along his right side.

“So...you thinking five wood?” she says, low and throaty, and he nearly jumps out of his skin right then and there. Honestly, the only word he can remember out of the entire sentence is “wood,” and he wasn’t going to go there with her, not today, not with Javi standing three feet away, but _fuck_.

Now it’s all he can think of, Tessa’s pretty mouth curving around the word “wood,” and against his will he feels a thrill of arousal shoot down his spine.

“Uh-huh,” he says, feeling stupid as all hell, but he can’t think when she’s this close, her hair brushing against his shoulder, the scent of her wrapped around him like clinging vines. If she keeps going on like this, he’s going to have to find a new term for blue balls, because he doesn’t think the original vocabulary is going to be sufficient.

“Well,” she says, considering, and her gloved hand slides over his on the handle of his club. “It’s not a bad choice, all in all.”

He can’t help it, the little shudder that runs through him when she touches him. If the pleased curl at the corner of her mouth is any indication, she’s very well aware of _exactly_ what’s going on, and loving every minute of it.

It’s only going to get worse from here.

He takes his shot, and does horribly, just as he expected. Then, just as he prepares to step to the side and let Tessa take hers, he feels her hand on his hip.

“Can you take my phone?” she says, which seems like an exceptionally odd request. Not only is there a pocket right there on the back of her skirt (right over the curve of her ass, and _yes_ , he’s been staring at her ass every chance he gets, of course he has), but there’s also her golf bag _right there_. Why she needs him to hold her phone is completely beyond him, but Javi’s waiting for them to finish up, and he might as well play along at this point.

“Yeah, sure,” he says awkwardly, and almost immediately realises his mistake, because apparently Tessa thinks that it’s necessary to slide her phone into his back pocket herself instead of just handing it to him like a normal human being. Slowly, she eases it into his pocket, her thumb lightly caressing the upper curve of his ass in the process. Then, unmistakably, he feels the backs of her fingers pressing into him, deliberately caressing him, and his breath hitches sharply in his throat. Her shoulders shake in his peripheral vision, and he realises to his horror that she’s silently _laughing_.

Oh fucking hell, no. No. There is no way she’s doing this to him and getting away with it. No. He’s going to find a way to turn this on her even if it nearly kills him.

As she draws her fingers out of his pocket and turns to take her shot, he steps up right behind her, brushing against her backside just enough for her to feel the heat of him, just as she did to him five minutes ago. This close, he feels the little tremor run through her, and he reaches for her hands just as he does in the intro to Moulin Rouge, sliding his hands over her shoulders and down over her biceps and forearms in a smooth, controlled motion - the puppetmaster at work.

“Got it lined up just right, Virtch?” he murmurs in her ear, his lips right against the sensitive skin, and when he looks down he can see her swallow hard, her lips parted just a little. Good, he thinks. Excellent, in fact. Let her get a taste of her own medicine.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” she says, and takes a deep breath in, the muscles of her back expanding against his chest. He’d be fooled by her whole got-it-in-hand act if he couldn’t see the delicate flush sweeping up from her collar to her earlobes.

“Now…” he says, very softly, rumbling right into her ear so that all she can hear is his voice, “visualise where you want the shot to go, and then...swing.”

She nods, spreads her feet a little to get the angle just right, and then he moves in for the kill. Without making it obvious, he shifts his weight so that the front of his pristine white trousers makes direct contact with her ass. He wants her to _feel_ what she’s doing to him, to understand exactly what it’s taking for him to keep up even this much of a façade. (He wants her to want it too, to imagine how very little effort it would take for him to slide his hand up that cute little grey skirt, pull her underwear to the side, slide his fingers into her…)

She takes the shot.

And, to her credit, makes it. He has no idea how, but she does. However, when she steps away, stowing her club neatly in her bag, he can see how badly her hands are shaking. It’s _working_.

He lifts the bag for her, because he’s going to be a gentleman even if she’s being the most maddening human being on the entire fucking planet, and heads off to the cart. He can do this, he tells himself. He can go golfing with his partner, who isn’t currently letting him sleep in her bed, drive her a little crazy, keep himself under control, and it’s all going to be fine. Just fine.

(On an unrelated note, Scott can’t even _look_ at Javi right now, doesn’t want to imagine what the other man is thinking. Holy hell, but he owes Javi a round tonight. Or five. Maybe ten.)

They climb in the cart, and this time Scott slides an arm around Tessa and smiles effusively at Javi, gesturing to the front.

“We’ll take the back this time, let you have a go at the good seats,” he says, as if joking, but the way he slides his hand down Tessa’s hip absolutely means business, and she _knows_ it.

They start off down the path to the next hole, and he takes advantage of the fact that the purple-jacketed woman is inexplicably absent to trace his fingers over Tessa’s knee. She pins him with a stare that would be much more intimidating if she weren’t nibbling on her lower lip.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a world of suspicion in her tone. He smiles, very sweetly, and edges his forefinger under the hem of her skirt.

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, and slides his other arm behind her, looking for all the world like a loving, supportive boyfriend. It’s an excellent ruse.

“Nothing doesn’t usually involve you playing with my skirt,” she hisses under her breath, but she can’t risk Javi hearing her, and that’s his edge here. He slides a glance at the front seat, determines that Javi and the driver are currently engaged in animated conversation, and quietly slips his entire hand beneath the grey fabric, curving it around her thigh. Tessa immediately goes still, her eyes darting to his under the brim of her white hat.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” she whispers fiercely. Scott widens his eyes, the picture of innocence.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She looks at Javi, then back at him, clearly calculating the risks involved, and he wants to crow with triumph. Oh yes. He’s got her. Miss Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue, the picture of propriety, is currently debating whether or not to let him slide his hand up her skirt in broad daylight, with their good friend and the driver sitting right there in the front seat. It’s _working_. Hell yes, it’s working.

“I...we...we shouldn’t…” she murmurs, but she’s waffling.

“Just tell me what you want, T,” he murmurs, low and suggestive. He means it - he’d never do something she genuinely disliked in bed (or in the back of a golf cart, or backstage in a dressing room, or...well, it’s not necessary to belabor the point, really). But he also wants her to remember that she does have a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and he brings it out in her. He’s the _only_ one to bring it out in her, if he’s being honest, and doesn’t that puff up his chest with pride.

She draws in a deep breath, and he notes with considerable smugness that she’s going pink again, the tips of her ears and her pretty freckled cheeks flushed.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and then she flicks one more glance at Javi and nudges his hand a little higher on her thigh, until his fingers are nearly brushing her underwear. His heart is pounding so that he can hardly breathe.

“Yeah?” he says, very softly, and her lashes flutter. He shifts his fingers minutely, and God, she’s so soft, the feel of all that smooth skin going to his head like good Scotch. He knows - he knows better than anyone on God’s green earth - how strong she is, the layers and layers of corded muscle under that silken skin. If he’s telling the truth to himself, he loves that most of all, knowing the incredible strength of her as intimately as he does.

He dips his head to nuzzle at her neck, breathing her in. He’s never met a more incredible woman in his entire life, never will, even if she routinely drives him crazy and enjoys it.

“You smell amazing,” he whispers, and he doesn’t miss the way she shivers against him, the way she leans into him, shifts her leg under his hand so that it moves higher still.

“Mmm,” she responds, almost a moan. “So do you. Baby…”

He nearly gasps. She never calls him that in public. It’s the pet name she reserves for the bedroom, for when she’s turned on and wants him to know it, and it’s like a fucking trigger for him. Almost involuntarily, he grasps at her thigh under the cover of the grey fabric, the same exact movement he does when they’re in bed and he’s spreading her open under his hungry gaze.

“Jesus, _Tessa_ ,” he hisses, and that’s when the cart jolts to a halt and her spine snaps erect.

“We’re here!” she trills, far too bright and cheery to be genuine, and without warning, she neatly removes his hand from under her skirt, adjusts her hat, and has hopped out of the cart, all in the space of about thirty seconds. He sits there, aroused, stunned, and still in something of a daze.

“What…” he starts, and she smiles at him, her press-conference smile, wide and with a wholly unnecessary amount of teeth.

“You ready to get beaten, Moir?” she says, very chipper, and he just _stares_. She did not...this isn’t...he can’t _think_.

“Tessa,” he grits out, low, between his teeth, and she tilts her head, her smile going just feral enough that he realises what she’s doing.

“Come on, Javi’s waiting,” she says, and then she turns around and sashays off toward where Javi is waiting, several feet away. Scott absently notes that there’s a note of abject fear in the other man’s eyes, a sort of cringing nervousness that reminds him somehow of Chiddy. He really didn’t mean to drag Javi into this nonsense, makes a mental note to apologise later when he’s not quite so...distracted.

Clambering out of the cart is not only difficult, but somewhat embarrassing. Thankfully, Javi and Tessa have gone ahead to plot out their shots, which leaves him to adjust his pants and hope like hell that it’s not painfully obvious to everyone that he’s sporting a raging boner.

He narrows his eyes to slits and stares at the curve of Tessa’s back. Perfect posture, as always, a remnant of her ballerina days, and as he watches, she flicks her ponytail back over her shoulder and catches his eye.

He raises an eyebrow and keeps staring, his gaze flat and level, and after a moment she turns back around.

Fine. That’s just fine. If she wants to play games like this, he can deal with that.

But she’d better damn well be prepared for his return salvo.

* * *

His first opportunity for revenge comes later that evening as they’re getting ready for dinner. The rest of their golfing excursion had been, quite frankly, hellish. He can’t remember the last time he was this miserably hard for her without being able to do anything about it. (This is a lie, because he can actually remember quite well...doing Say It Right in Lausanne, her hips snapping against his, pushing him hard against that ridiculous fake brick wall, and he couldn’t breathe for wanting her. That was back when he was with Kaitlyn and she was with Ryan and he drank his nights away to forget everything, but he still couldn’t stop wanting her, even when being near her was like someone taking a blade to his skin, every cut sharper than the last.)

Anyway. He really doesn’t want to remember that year of his life at the moment, all things considered. The point is, it’s been a while since he’s been this desperate for her.

And, while he’s shoving his pants into their shared laundry bag (because that’s the sort of thing they share now, whether he’s sleeping on the couch or not), it occurs to him. The shower.

He doesn’t waste any time. (Doesn’t want to lose his nerve, is more like, but he isn’t going to admit that even to himself.) No sooner has the thought popped into his head than he’s crossing the room, throwing open the door of their very nicely appointed bathroom, and is greeted by a cloud of steam.

“Tess?” he calls, and there’s a splatter of water against the tile.

“Yes?” she says, sounding confused.

“It’s getting late, and I have to shower too,” he says, as if this is just a practical consideration that he’s thought of as a time-saving device. “You mind if I hop in?”

The steam has cleared just enough that he can see her outline through the glass doors of the shower. She’s standing stock still, one hand planted on her hip.

“In _here?_ ” she says, voice going a little high. He smiles. It’s not a particularly _pleasant_ smile, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Yeah, in there, Tess, there’s only the one shower,” he points out, very rationally. There’s a thud, and he can’t be positive, but he thinks she just dropped her shampoo.

“Oh,” she says. “Well. Umm...we can’t be late.”

“You do hate being late,” he agrees, inspecting his fingernails casually.

“All right then,” she says reluctantly. “Come on in.”

He resists the urge to do a victory dance then and there and instead strips off his underwear.

When he steps into the shower, the first thing he realises is that if he’s going to win this thing, he’s going to have to _focus_. Which is rather difficult when faced with a very naked, very wet Tessa. But he’s been training with mental prep coaches for the better part of twenty years. He can do this.

“Pass me a washcloth?” he says in a positively blasé tone. She blinks, and he realises with a thrill of absolute delight that she’s been staring at his arousal and not listening to a thing.

“Hmm?” she says, looking a bit dazed, and he smiles, very sweetly.

“Washcloth, Tess,” he says, and she reaches for it absent-mindedly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, her eyes flickering over his torso, and then she tilts her head under the spray of the faucet to wet her hair. When it’s soaked through, she bends over to grab her shampoo from the shower floor, and _fuck_ , he cannot afford to get distracted staring at the extraordinarily perfect curve of Tessa’s ass.

 _Get it together, Moir,_ he thinks frantically. There is a _plan_ here, and that plan does not involve Tessa getting the upper hand. Again.

“You want some help with that?” he says, and hopes desperately that she can’t hear how rough his voice has gotten. He sounds like he did with that head cold after PyeongChang.

“With my hair?” she says, and he nods.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, still playing it cool, and she shrugs. She hasn’t quite figured out what he’s up to, which is good. Let her wonder for a while, he thinks, drops the washcloth and plucks the shampoo bottle out of her hand. “Turn around.”

She obeys, and he can’t resist smirking widely when he rubs the first dollop of strawberry-scented shampoo into her scalp and she arches into his touch. He’s gentle, careful, but he knows damn well how much she likes it when he plays with her hair. He also knows that having her hair pulled drives her wild, particularly when he’s buried to the hilt inside her, his mouth on her collarbone and his fingers tugging at the soft strands at the nape of her neck.

After ten years in Tessa’s bed (on and off though some of those years might have been), he knows a _lot_ of things.

“Ohhh,” she says as he finishes at her crown and rubs the callused pads of his fingers against the base of her skull. “Mmm. That’s...mmmm.”

“Glad you approve,” he says, smugly, and gets another dollop of shampoo to work through the rest of her hair. He’s very thorough. (After all, one doesn’t get to be an Olympic medallist five times over by ignoring the details.) By the time he’s done, her eyes are closed and she looks utterly relaxed, her face peaceful. There’s a part of him that’s genuinely happy that she’s unwound for a minute, because God knows Tessa’s tense far too much of the time, but there’s another, baser part that’s determined to get her all tensed up again, on purpose. This is just the plateau, he tells himself.

“Better rinse off,” he says, and steers her under the spray. He repeats the process with her conditioner (and forces himself to ignore the fact that the smell of her hair products has become a damned trigger in and of itself, because the second he smells strawberries all he can think of is love and warmth and _home_ , which is not the point he’s trying to make at the moment. Not the point at _all_.).

When she’s all done rinsing out her hair, he holds out one of those little plastic hair clips she uses to keep her hair out of her way when she’s doing her face or her makeup or whatnot.

“Here,” he says, and she frowns. “Put your hair up, babe, we’re not done yet.”

The look of open-mouthed shock on her face is _priceless_.

“I beg your pardon?” she says when she’s regained the power of speech.

“I said I’d help,” he explains, obligingly. “And I would assume you’d want to wash the rest of you, so...I’m here to assist.”

Her eyebrows fly up.

“Here, hand me that body wash, the vanilla kind you like,” he says, still in that extremely amiable tone of voice. “You said it moisturizes well. Or something.”

She reaches for it as if her brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation yet, and then her brows furrow.

“What are you up to?” she says suspiciously, and he bites his lip to avoid grinning. He should’ve known she’d catch on quickly. Nothing slow about Tessa Virtue.

“What am I up to?” he parrots, and begins lathering his hands. “Tessa. What kind of question is that?”

And then he reaches out and gently spins her round until she’s facing away from him again. Slowly, very slowly, he slides his soapy hands over her shoulders, down her arms, their opening move from Moulin Rouge again, and she gasps, loudly.

“Everything all right?” he says, with faux concern. She nods a little too fast.

“Perfectly...ah, perfectly fine,” she says, and he slides his fingers between hers, laces their hands together like he does after every skate.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low in her ear, and feels the shudder start at the base of her spine. “I’ve got you, Tess.”

“I know,” she whispers, and only then does he let go of her hands to slide his fingers back up to the base of her neck, circles them lightly around her throat. When she whines softly, helplessly, he slips his fingers away to skim them over her collarbones, brushes his palms over the top of her chest.

“Scott,” she breathes out, and even though he’s hard as steel and aching for her, and there’s still a very large part of him that wants to _win_ this, dammit, something flutters in his chest at the sound of his name on her lips.

“What do you want, Tessa?” he whispers, leans in to brush his mouth against her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

She doesn’t say a word, just tugs on his hands until she gets them where she wants them, cupping her breasts.

“That wasn’t telling,” he points out, although his voice is a little scratchy.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she huffs, and he lets himself grin, because she can’t see him anyway and he’s enjoying the hell out of himself. He brushes his thumbs over her nipples, just to see what she’ll do, and her back arches beautifully as the breath hisses out between her teeth.

“Jesus, _Scott_ ,” she says, low and throaty, and tilts her head back against his shoulder. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“Please?” he says, and he’s absolutely being an ass right now, but he thinks of last night on that fucking couch, and today at the golf course, and grits his teeth. “Hmmm.”

He doesn’t even have to look at her face to know the wary expression she’s wearing right now.

“Relax, babe,” he mumbles, and turns his head to nibble at the side of her neck. (Which is not fair because he knows perfectly well how she reacts to that particular move, and sure enough, he can feel her body melting against him, slides one hand down to curve around her ribcage to steady her.)

All told, this seems like an excellent time to implement phase two of his plan.

“Tess?” he says into her hair, and she hums out a wordless response, her hand coming up over his so that she’s cradled against him. “Tess, I have to wash your back.”

“What?” she says, nestling into his neck. “Oh...it’s all right, just…”

He blithely ignores her protest, and carefully, because the floor’s a bit slippery, he maneuvers her upright.

“I said I’d help,” he says firmly. “Stay still.”

And then he proceeds to start at her shoulders and work his way down her spine, slow, deliberate strokes, stopping to massage a knot or two at her neck, until she’s sighing at his touch all over again.

This abruptly stops when he reaches her ass and, in a move remarkably similar to the one she used on him earlier in the day, brushes the backs of his fingers against the smooth curve.

“Oh,” she gasps, and yes, that’s right, payback feels _wonderful_. Fucking wonderful.

“Yes, T?” he says, and slides both hands over her, slowly, deliberately. She groans. Actually groans.

“Oh God,” she says, and really, she shouldn’t sound this surprised. She knows he has a thing for her ass. For fuck’s sake, there are videos on the damned internet of him patting her ass at competitions, during training (and he not exactly _proud_ that his fascination with her butt has become a damned meme, but he guesses it’s probably richly deserved). When he skims his fingers over her curves and latches on to her hips, pulling her back against him, he is forced to admit that maybe the meme creators have a point.

“Tess,” he growls, actually _growls_ , because the feel of her ass against him, no golfing clothes in the way, is exquisitely torturous. “Tell. Me. What. You. Want.”

She tugs at his fingers again where they’re gripping her hips a little too tight, but this time he refuses to budge.

“I want your hands on me,” she moans, twisting her hips against him so that the friction nearly drives him out of his mind.

“Where?” he huffs out, trying to hold her still, because if she keeps wriggling her butt against him like this, their little shower session is going to be over a whole lot faster than she’d like.

“Dammit, you _know_ where,” she says on a frustrated inhale. He leans in, takes her earlobe between his teeth, and nips. His game, his rules, and she’s not getting away with any of her usual bullshit this time.

“Fuck!” she gasps out, which is rare. Tessa only curses like that when she’s incredibly frustrated (or has whacked an elbow or toe on something in her usual klutzy fashion). “What, do you want me to spell it out for you?”

He finally lets go of her hips, slides his hands over her abdomen, glorying in the feel of the muscles tensing under her skin.

“Why yes, Tessa, I would absolutely like you to spell it out for me,” he drawls, and skims his thumb over her belly ring. The sound that rips out of her throat is positively indecent.

“Fine,” she snaps. “I will. I want your fingers, inside me, _now_. N-O-W. I want your thumb on my clit, I want to ride you until I can’t see straight, I want to fuck you ten ways to Sunday. Clear enough?”

And yeah, he’s played himself, because the second she says _that_ , he nearly breaks, very nearly does exactly what she told him to, very nearly spins her around against the wall and lets himself get black-out lost in the incredible feeling of her, all around him, wet and warm and everything he’s ever desired in his entire life.

But that would mean she wins, and he swore to himself that he had to get the upper hand at least once.

Instead, he drops one hand, hovers right above where she wants him, so that she feels the warmth of his fingers against every oversensitized cell. He scrapes his teeth along the curve of her shoulder, with just enough pressure to make her quiver without ever leaving a bruise, and then trails the flat of his tongue up her neck until his mouth is poised over the wild drumming of her pulse point.

“In that case...” he says, his voice so raw it sounds like sandpaper beneath the rush of the falling water, “in that case, Tessa, you’re going to have to ask nicely.”

And then he takes his hands off her, steps back (ignoring the fact that the rest of him is loudly protesting this decision), folds his arms over his chest, and waits.

She spins around so fast he’s a little scared she’s going to fall.

“What the _hell?_ ”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve had a wonderful time at my expense the last twenty-four hours,” he points out, trying to sound collected despite the fact that he’s stark naked and obviously aroused. “I will admit that the bandmates comment was...not my best idea. And yes, I should’ve talked it over with you first. But first of all, you know perfectly well I didn’t mean for it to blow up all over the internet, and second, making me sleep on the damned couch was going a little far. The _couch_ , Tessa.”

She’s staring at him, eyes still dilated with what can only be lust, chest heaving, and he thinks momentarily that he may actually die in this shower at the hands of a very wet and naked Tessa Virtue, but God, what a way to go.

“Do you mean to tell me…” she begins, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“Yes, I do,” he says, possibly with more confidence than he actually feels. “I’m not doing a damn thing to you, or with you, unless you ask nicely. After what you’ve put me through today, it’s really the least you could do.”

She takes a deep breath, then another, eyes on the floor. Then she looks up, and oh God, he’s dead. So very fucking dead.

“You want me to ask nicely, is that it?” she says. Her voice is completely flat.

“Yes,” he says, and wonders if she’ll bother to bury him or just leave his body for the wolves. If there are wolves in Japan. He’s not really sure, come to think of it.

She takes a step forward, then another, until she’s right up against him, and fuck it all, he’s not entirely sure he can stick to his guns with Tessa’s wet breasts brushing against his chest like that.

“You want me to say please?” she says, and now her voice is husky, purring. Fucking hell. This is not good. This is very Not Good.

“Umm…” he says. He really had not expected quite this reaction. She edges a bit closer, plastered up against him so that he can feel every single curve, and his arms unfold automatically. Her hands shoot out to grab his wrists, her grip solid, and his eyes widen.

“You want me to beg for it, is that it? _Baby?_ ”

Jesus. Saying that this has escalated quickly is the understatement of the year.

“Well, I…” he starts, and that’s the moment of weakness she was looking for, apparently, because she pounces.

“All right, then,” she says, eyes blazing. “ _Please_.”

And then she lets go of his wrists, tangles both hands in his hair, and drags him down to her mouth. He kisses her back, can’t help it, can’t stop himself, and when she bites down on his bottom lip and slides the tip of her tongue along his jawline, he fucking loses it.

“Christ, Tessa, just let me…for God’s sake, I can’t...” he grits out, not even striving for coherency anymore. He’s out of his goddamn mind with desperation for her. He doesn’t even think he can make it out of the shower, much less to the bed, without dropping her or passing out or something equally catastrophic.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, fiercely, and lifts her hands to his shoulders, pressing down the exact same way she does for 75% of their lifts. His hands fly to her hips out of sheer muscle memory, lifting her, and he’s got her pinned against the wall, ready to go, before he manages to stop himself through a sheer act of will.

“This okay?” he manages through clenched teeth, praying with everything he’s got that she’s fine with this, because he really thinks he may fucking die if she isn’t.

She grabs a fistful of hair and yanks, pulling his head back until she’s staring into his eyes, her own so vividly bright and green, a stormy sea in her flushed face.

“Scott,” she says, very seriously, “if you don’t fuck me against this wall immediately, I swear I’ll never speak to you again. Much less sleep with you. Please. _Do it_.”

And that’s all it takes. In half a second, he’s sliding into her, all that glorious heat, and God, this is not going to last long. (Which is embarrassing, because at thirty he should goddamn well have some endurance, but he’s been desperate for a _while_ now, and it’s not going to take much.)

Luckily for him, the second he slides his knuckles over her clit, she loses it too, whimpering shamelessly and crossing her ankles over the small of his back.

“I’m so close...already…” she gasps against the hollow of his throat, “oh God, you already had me so worked up, Scott, _baby_ …”

He speeds up, hips snapping frantically against hers, and she’s matching him thrust for thrust, tightening her thighs around his waist, her mouth like a brand against his chest. And then, suddenly, she comes apart around him, head thudding back against the granite wall of the shower, back arched in a perfect bow, her lips falling open as her eyes flutter shut.

“Tess…” he groans, watches her ride it out before he lets himself fall over the edge, because there is nothing he’s ever seen that’s quite as perfect as watching Tessa’s face as she comes, knowing that it’s because of him, that by some miracle he’s the one who gets to have her like this. Who gets to love her like this.

“Come on,” she murmurs, cupping his cheek, her eyes fixed on his, and then he’s gone too, white-hot and gasping, stars and galaxies whirling through his head, nothing holding him to the earth but Tessa’s hands, soft against his skin.

When he comes back down, he realises that his legs are a little shaky, and he’s breathing like he ran a marathon. (The water, thankfully, is still hot, though.) And Tessa - Tessa is staring at him like he’s hung the fucking moon in the sky.

“Hi,” he whispers. She smiles, sweet and slow, and drops her head on his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck.

“Hi,” she murmurs. “We’re going to miss dinner.”

He shifts against her.

“No, babe, we can still make it if we hurry - ”

She stops him with a drowsy kiss to his jaw.

“Uh-uh,” she says, sounding very lazy and sated. “We’re missing dinner. We’re going to rinse off, and wrap up in those very nice robes over there, and order room service.”

He chuckles.

“All right,” he says, easing her down. She doesn’t seem to want to move away from him, though, arms still wrapped around his neck, clinging like a sleepy little koala.

“I missed you,” she says. “Last night, in bed. I missed you. Snuggling with my laptop wasn’t quite the same.”

He presses his mouth to her wet hair, breathes her in. Finally.

“Missed you too,” he says. “So what, this is you making it up to me, hmm?”

She looks up at him through her lashes.

“Maybe,” she says, and it’s damned close to pouting. (He has a soft spot for Tessa pouting, and she knows it.) She looks so fucking adorable like this, all flushed and happy and warm against him, and he finds that he is utterly incapable of holding a grudge. Not with her.

“I’ll take it,” he says, and reaches for his washcloth.


End file.
